


If I Could Go Back In Time

by EiraLloyd



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Apple of Eden, Canon Compliant (eventually), Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Parkour, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:26:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12978024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EiraLloyd/pseuds/EiraLloyd
Summary: Three months after the death of Al Mualim, Altaïr thinks about The Mission, and how he failed to save Malik and Kadar. The Apple of Eden, which has remained silent until then, decides to send him back to that day. The Assassin takes it upon himself to do what he couldn't do the first time: rescue his friends from dying at the hands of Robert de Sablé and his men.





	If I Could Go Back In Time

**Author's Note:**

> I first posted this in another website under a similar name in 2016, and now I'm posting it here. It was inspired by the 3 Doors Down song "It's Not My Time". I slightly modified canon for this to work, though. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad would always remember that dark day in his life. That day in which he got both his friends killed. It had been his arrogance and his recklessness that had resulted in both their deaths, and the treasure had ended up in the Templar's hands. He'd got it back, after arduous months of work, assassinating Templars here and there, interrogating the right people, recovering important intelligence. But nothing — not even the discovery of his beloved Mentor's betrayal — was comparable to the pain he felt when he found out, when he was  _certain_  of Malik and Kadar's deaths. And here he was, three months after taking over the position of Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood of Assassins, still unable to fully understand the mysterious object that had been responsible for all that bloodshed, all those deaths. A piece of silver, glinting mockingly in the sunlight.  _I will always remain a mystery to you,_  it seemed to say. 

There was only so much taunting Altaïr could take for one day.

Shaking his head, he turned his back on the cursed object, and stared out the window, at the same garden where he'd defeated his Mentor. It had seemed unthinkable at the time. Altaïr, killing Al Mualim? If anyone had told him of his actions when Malik and Kadar were still alive, he'd have stabbed them in the throat, and for good measure. But now, now that he  _knew_... With another shake of his head, he turned away from the window. He'd lost too much, had been betrayed one too many times. And the constant complaints of his former friend Abbas only worsened his mood.

_If only Malik and Kadar were still here..._

For the first time ever since Al Mualim's death, the glow of the Apple of Eden intensified, and Altaïr's gaze shifted to it automatically. The silver orb seemed to have a life of its own, and soon light engulfed the room. The new Mentor looked away, his arm raised to shield himself from the blinding white. When he could finally lower his arm, he found he was not in his study at all. The bright, searing hot sunlight was the first thing he noticed, the heat almost like a weight, dragging him down. Under his feet was a solid block of yellowed stone. Buildings of different heights and styles spread around him, forming a certain harmony that was beautiful to any eye. He got a better look around him, and soon recognised the city he was in. He'd visited it so many times, had spent so many hours climbing its highest points and discovering every single corner of it, he knew it almost like the palm of his hand.

Jerusalem.  _Al-Quds_.

The Holy City.

It also brought bitter memories with him. After all, it was in this very same city where he had led Malik and Kadar to their deaths. He could still hear their cries of pain, as they fought — and lost — against Robert de Sablé and his men. He could still feel a deep, powerful ache in his chest. Guilt, grief, gloom. Several emotions bottled up in him, and they were far too many to name. Far too many to ponder on how he felt at the moment. First, he needed to leave the city and get back to Masyaf as soon as possible. He couldn't go missing for too long, now that he had to command the entire Brotherhood. Altaïr turned in direction of the nearest exist, when he heard it: it was Kadar's voice.

At first, he thought he'd been hallucinating. Kadar was dead. Altaïr  _knew_  it. He'd caused it. There was no way the young Assassin was still alive. Yet his voice rang in his ears as clear as the sun, shining bright in the clear Jerusalem sky. The new Mentor held his breath, and looked down on the partially crowded streets of the city. With his special vision — his Eagle Vision — he spotted them quickly enough. It was a group of three people, all of them Assassins. Two of them wore long white robes, corresponding to their high rank within the Brotherhood. The third of them was also an Assassin, yet he was of far lower rank than the two older men. He was clearly Kadar. The robes and the voice: they belonged to the same man Altaïr had once known. And the other two — well, it was obvious, really. They were Malik and Altaïr, a younger, more arrogant version of the man on the rooftops.

And this was  _The_  Mission.

"This is the fastest route to the ruins of the Temple of Solomon," Malik assured them, and Altaïr was startled upon hearing his voice once more. Just like with Kadar, he had never thought he'd hear it again, unless they were his screams of agony as he died with his brother, the way his brain often reminded him, especially at night. The older, wiser Altaïr couldn't help it. Soon, he was preparing himself to jump off the rooftops and stop them — the Apple had given him this opportunity to fix his mistake and he wasn't about to let it go to waste.

But as soon as he jumped off the building, he felt like he hit a solid rock wall, and was propelled backwards, falling on the same rooftop he'd been standing on earlier. The bad landing hurt his back, and he hit his head, unable to prevent it. He could feel himself losing consciousness, and the last thing he was aware of — the last thing he could see and feel — was the harsh light coming from the sun, suspended high above him, in the clear blue Jerusalem sky.

* * *

The sun was still there, mocking him, when he regained consciousness. His vision was blurred, and he felt groggy, but all that cleared once he realised what he'd been trying to do: save his friends. With Malik and Kadar in mind, the young man pushed himself up and looked around. The three Assassins were nowhere in sight, and that worried him. What if he was too late? But one look at the position of the sun, and he knew he wasn't — if he could just get there quick enough. The new Mentor had a clear map of Jerusalem in mind, and it took mere seconds for him to identify the quickest route to the entrance of the Temple. Still, he would never make it in time... unless he used the carefully-practiced art of free-running. As an Assassin — as their Mentor — he'd mastered that art long ago, and used it whenever he could. It was most useful in high-stress situations like these.

Taking a deep breath, Altaïr looked in direction of the Temple, and jumped off the roof. He fell to the ground and rolled, before getting back up and sprinting straight ahead. He couldn't afford to lose one single second. One single second might mean life or death to his friends, and he couldn't be responsible for their deaths once more. He couldn't.

* * *

"Wait! There must be another way! This one need not die!" Malik exclaimed, but it was too late, and Altaïr had already driven his hidden blade into the neck of the old man — an innocent. The Master Assassin lowered the body to the ground carefully, retracting his blade back in to his metal bracer on his left forearm, and mentally prepared himself to hear another one of Malik Al-Sayf's lectures.

* * *

The new Mentor of the Levantine Assassins ran like he'd never run before. Not even when his life had been endangered by soldiers — Saracens, Hospitaliers, Teutonics or Templars — had he run this fast. The street was coming to a dead end right in front of him, and Altaïr prepared himself to jump. His legs gave him the initial impulse by kicking the façade of the nearest building, and his hands soon found appropriate grips further up the stone building. In a matter of seconds, the young man was already on the roof, and continued running straight ahead.

He quickly stepped across a narrow, fragile wooden beam to get across the wide street that lay in front of him, maintaining his equilibrium every step of the way. Despite the potential dangers of running at full speed on those sticks, he ran as quickly as he could, pushing himself to the limit. He knew time was running out, and if he didn't take advantage of every second he had, then Malik and Kadar would have to die,  _again_ , and wouldn't be able to save them,  _again_. He wasn't having that.

The building right in front of him was considerably lower than the one he was on, and without thinking about it, Altaïr jumped, and did a flip. He landed, and rolled to maintain his momentum, and resumed his race against time as soon as he got back on his feet. He jumped off the building once more, and ran straight ahead through the streets of Jerusalem, pushing past every civilian and guard that got on his way. He cared little for those who dared chase after him right after he pushed them aside. At his current speed, he would lose them quickly enough.

The young man could see it: right in front of him, the street was going to end,  _again_. But this time, some stacks were piled up on one side, making a small set of stairs for him to climb. He did so, and jumped on a wooden beam just in front of him, acting as yet another step in these makeshift stairs. He jumped, then, grabbing an iron rod sticking out of the side of the building, and using it to swing across a gap left in his stairs. His feet landed on another wooden beam, which broke under his sudden and heavy weight, but by then, Altaïr had already used the frail object to give himself enough momentum to reach a solid rock archway, which connected the two sides of the street together. From there, the man gained the nearest rooftop, and continued his race without a problem.

He jumped on wooden squares, suspended in the middle of the air, and passed completely unseen by the civilians below. His shadow was like that of an eagle, soaring through the sky with confidence and determination — and in a hurry known only by those who have an important mission to see through. And there is no more important mission than the one aiming to save a friend. The white-hooded Assassin ran past archers, who, bewildered, yelled at him in Arabic to get off the rooftops as quickly as he could. He merely ignored them, and if any of them tried to shoot arrows at him, these didn't even come close to grazing him.

He hoisted himself up to another rooftop with difficulty.

* * *

"That must be the Ark!" exclaimed Malik upon seeing the golden, highly decorated chest on the other side of the room.

"The Ark... of the Covenant?" asked Kadar, gasping, impressed by the beauty and holiness of it. The way it glowed lightly, even in the dark underground network that had become the Solomon Temple. A myth, a legend come true. And they were the only ones to see it. The only ones there to witness it. But not for long. Altaïr was quick to remark how the Ark of the Covenant was but a story, a children's tale, and he was quickly shushed by Malik.

Someone else was coming.

* * *

Altaïr did yet another flip as he soared through the air. He continued running, and running, despite the harshness of his breathing, the painful complaint from his muscles, and the sweat dripping off his forehead, result of the persistent heat of the Middle-Eastern city. He tried his best not to slow down, but at times it felt necessary — as though his muscles would stop on their own if he didn't slow down a fraction of a second. But as soon as he'd slowed down, the man would sprint again, and run even faster than before. It was clear to every soldier, civilian or scholar that an Eagle was on a mission, and that no one should stand on its path.

The young man jumped down to a lower rooftop, and then onto the harsh ground, where some normal stairs had been made. He quickly jumped over the border, and rolled as soon as his feet touched the ground, before getting back up and continuing his race across the city. Unfortunately, he had just entered a street of merchants — and crowds filled the centre of the streets while the merchants and their stalls filled the sides. It was most fortunate that the Brotherhood had perfected a technique for this long ago, and the new Mentor didn't hesitate as he ran towards the nearest stall and jumped through it, kicking and breaking a few pots in the process, before rolling on the other side of the stand. Not heeding any of the angry cries and insults thrown at him, the Assassin continued, and repeated the process over and over, until there were no stalls left in front of him, and no more pots left to break with his feet.

He came across a fence just then, but couldn't afford to stop running now. If he stopped, then he would collapse, and wouldn't be able to get back up again. Just as though he were climbing a building, the young man used his feet to propel himself further up, and gained proper grips with his hands, before hoisting his entire body, enough to pass without getting impaled with the pointy sticks of the fence. He did this a couple of times too, for there were far too many fences in this part of Jerusalem. And for the last one, Altaïr used the bench right in front of him to give him impulse and — without kicking the women at either end of the bench — flew right over the top of the fence. He brought his legs to his chest as he soared through the air, and did a quick flip, landing right on his feet.

He then proceeded to push some soldiers out of his way, and these were quick to chase him as soon as he'd touched the chest plate of their captain. Jerusalem soldiers were agile, but none possessed the abilities Altaïr did, as an Assassin, and none possessed the speed of a man — of an Eagle — with a mission. He quickly left them behind as he climbed up yet another building with apparent ease, and with a mix or rolls and flips, got past the remaining buildings that stood between him and the entrance to the Solomon Temple he'd used so long ago, when three had gone in, and none had returned, Altaïr having used another exit after having been shoved out of the room by Robert de Sablé.

Finally, he reached the entrance.

* * *

"You know not the things in which you meddle,  _Assassin_ ," spat Robert, and the last word sounded just exactly like its counterpart in French, due to the man's distinctive,  _very_  thick accent. "I spare you only that you may return to your Master and deliver a message: that the Holy Land is lost to him and his. He should flee now, while he has the chance. Stay and all of you will die." The threat felt real enough when he said it, and hurt his pride just as much as the fall through the debris hurt his body, the younger Altaïr rolling away from the main room, shoved by his enemy of all people. He'd broken scaffoldings when he was shoved, and these, in turn, brought down parts of the already crumbling Temple. The debris, a mix of broken stone and wood, left Malik and Kadar trapped with Robert de Sablé and four of his men.

At first, he stayed, but soon, the cries of pain from his friends were too much for him, and he left the Temple with haste, eager to return to Al Mualim and leave the greatest mistake of his life behind him for good.

* * *

When the oldest Altaïr reached the entrance to the main room, Kadar was already dead. His dead body was the first thing he saw as soon as he ran into the higher platform, and he felt as though someone had stabbed him in the stomach, pierced it in its entirety. Malik had just received a bad cut to the arm, and that sword was most definitely not clean. If he survived this, he would need immediate attention by a proper physician, or else he might just die of his wounds as well. The Assassin fell to his knees in pain, dropping his sword as he did. The soldier prepared to strike him...

Altaïr jumped.

He didn't think about it. He performed a move he had only performed once before, to prevent Al Mualim from being killed, to save him and reclaim the Brotherhood from the army that had laid siege to Masyaf. His attack had been successful, and had earned him the rank of Master Assassin at the young age of twenty-four — the youngest Master Assassin to have ever existed until then. That move definitely ought to be improved and taught to every Assassin in the Brotherhood — it was bound to be useful in the hardest of times.

Now, he would perform the move once more, to save his lifelong friend and Brother. The new Mentor landed on the Templar, shoving his hidden blade deep into his throat as he did. Malik, who had been expecting the killing blow, received nothing at all. Instead, he saw the figure of the same Altaïr that had left moments before — he couldn't possibly notice the age difference, considering mere months had passed since this very moment to this Altaïr — executing a move that wasn't in  _any_ Assassin repertoire in History, to save his life.

" _Quoi ? Comment ?_ " demanded Robert de Sablé, his surprise and bewilderment making him slip back to his native language. "But I just threw you outside the room!" he exclaimed, remembering his Arabic. The Master Assassin was ready to strike at him, but his hands burnt. He took it as a message from the Apple:  _Not yet. His time will come, soon._

"No. You didn't." Just because Altaïr couldn't kill him didn't mean he couldn't fight him — or fight his men, for that matter. And the Grand Master of the Templars had no time to reflect on his opponent's cryptic words, for he jumped at another soldier, taking out his sword and impaling him, the man's surprise having left him defenceless. Only then did Robert and his men regain their senses.

But their momentary confusion had been enough, and Malik had regained his feet and taken his sword again. Gritting his teeth through the pain, the young man was stabbing and slashing at the nearest Templar, and soon, with the two friends, colleagues,  _Brothers_ , fighting side by side, Robert was left alone against the two experienced Assassins.

Then again, he wasn't the Templars' Grand Master for nothing.

"Go, Robert. There's nothing for you here. Not anymore," Altaïr ordered, and remained expressionless as the Frenchman glared and sneered at him.

"This isn't the end,  _Assassin_." Once again, the word spat like an insult sounded a lot more like the French word than the Arabic word. However, none of his insults or threats troubled the Master Assassin. "We will see each other again. Death will come for you then." That... well, that wasn't exactly how Altaïr remembered it to have happened. No, he remembered defeating the men loyal to Robert, one by one, until only the man himself remained. And then, despite his weariness, the Assassin had defeated him, and stained a white feather with his blood.

"No. It will come for  _you_ ," he corrected. One more sneer, and soon, Robert was gone.

Malik walked forwards, and picked up the treasure with his right hand. He didn't seem to be able to move his left arm, and Altaïr feared for his friend. They exchanged looks, yet before either of them could say anything, the new Mentor's body started to glow white. He looked at his own hands, which started to dissolve into white, glowing orbs, all heading into one direction: the only way out of the Temple. He knew what was coming. He had altered time, and thus he no longer existed. He had to go.

One last look at Malik, and Altaïr was certain: he didn't regret his actions one bit.

Malik Al-Sayf watched as his friend, his Brother, dissolved into balls of white light, heading exactly the way they'd arrived. The Assassin — the weary, wounded, wilful Assassin — was quick to follow what remained of his friend. He reached the exit, unable to feel his left arm, and with Al Mualim's treasure in his right hand. He was momentarily blinded by the brightness of the Jerusalem sunlight, yet he was still able to see the white orbs dissolving into thin air as they reached the surface.

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad was gone.

* * *

"Where are Malik and Kadar?" demanded Al Mualim, in an angry tone. Malik had never heard him use such tone with Altaïr — and wasn't sure how to feel about it either. He'd been jealous of Altaïr before, there was no denying that, and his disrespect of the Creed had only infuriated him. But now that he'd been saved, by Altaïr — let it be a future version of him, or another one entirely — his fury was gone, making it hard to keep his grief at bay. Kadar...

"Dead," answered the Master Assassin, keeping his voice emotionless.

"No," the young man announced, surprising both his Mentor and his friend. "Not dead." He couldn't see well, because the person in question was hiding under his hood, but Malik thought he'd seen Altaïr pale, as though he'd seen a ghost. And to him, he probably was. Hadn't he thought him dead? A single look, and Malik knew: this wasn't the Altaïr who'd rescued him. No, he hadn't even  _thought_  about it, running straight back to his Master like Robert had ordered. He was nothing like the man who'd saved his life in the Temple. And seeing  _this_  Altaïr brought his fury back, and he growled, "I still live at least."

"And your brother?" the Mentor asked.

"Gone." It was hard to remain as emotionless as Altaïr had moments before. After all, Kadar hadn't just been his Brother. He'd been his  _brother_  — they had the same blood flowing through their veins, the same features on their faces. Worse still, Kadar was his  _younger_  brother. Malik should've protected him. It was his duty. Instead, he'd failed. He would have preferred to lose both his arms and both his legs, in exchange for Kadar's life. In fact, he would've exchanged his own life for his brother's, if it had been possible. One look at the Master Assassin, and his blood boiled. "Because of you!"

"Robert threw me from the room. There was no way back. Nothing I could do—"

Malik cut him off, unable to listen to such pathetic excuses. "Because you would not heed my warning!" He paused, but that did not mean his fury had been appeased. Not at all. "All of this could've been avoided. And my brother..." His voice broke then, but the young man forced himself to finish his sentence. "My brother would still be alive." Grief hit him back in full force, like a massive tidal wave, crashing onto him and him alone. He bottled it up inside. This was not the moment to show any emotion.

He looked at Altaïr once more, and was struck by the harsh difference between the two men — the one who abandoned him and the one who rescued him — who looked incredibly similar in age. More than a year mustn't have passed between them, yet they were radically different. It was as though there were two different people named Altaïr in his life, and one had dissolved in front of his very eyes. Malik respected that man. He felt no jealousy or contempt towards him, not at all. And yet,  _this_  Altaïr... he couldn't name all the negative emotions he felt towards him. And that's when he knew.

Until Altaïr changed, until he became  _that man_ , there would be no forgiveness in sight. Not from Malik Al-Sayf.


End file.
